In the Loge
by Elwyngirlie
Summary: He watches the pair, unaware that he is being watched. He watches his partner, unaware that he is being watched. Gazes never meet,but eyes are always looking. Fic to the Police's Every Breath You Take. Hints at Tsusoka.


**In the Loge**

Disclaimer: Yami No Matsuei is the property of Matsushita Yoko. I make no claim to the characters, story, etc, although I have checked Ebay for the rights often. Characters used and manipulated without permission.

"Every Breath You Take" is the property of The Police. From their album Synchronicity. Written and copyrighted by Sting. Used without permission. Lyrics in italics.

I apologize for the terrible summary.

Spoilers: Post-Kyoto Arc. Pairings: Hints at TsuSoka.

A/N: This is my first fanfiction _ever_, so constructed criticism is welcome and wanted.

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_Every breath you take, Every move you make, Every bond you break, Every step you take, I'll be watching you_

He stood, silent, in the park, the wind softly blowing his coat around his legs, the belt snapping in the breeze. His one eye was trained on a pair across the freshly cut grass. A blonde boy and his companion, whose arm was draped casually across the other's shoulder. Most people would, at a glance, would see an uncle and his nephew, or friends with a large age gap between them. Upon a closer inspection, they would notice the teasing glints in purple eyes, the blush permanently stained across the boy's cheeks. Lovers, maybe.

His eye was trained on the violet eyed man. They had been in Nagasaki for two days, tracking a ghost. He had been watching them, watching the older man playfully feed the boy cake, watching them argue, hearing the blonde call the brunette "baka."

He stood, silent, in the park, watching them until evening fell and they left. Quietly, he followed them, noticed the name of their hotel, and looked up at their room when the light turned on. He could see the brunette at the window, looking soft, lost. But he knew that the softness was a lie. He had seen him in battle, had fought him, stabbed deep by him, and nearly burnt by him.

But, still, he watched, and waited, until the violet eyed man was his to hold, to make scream, and cry, in pleasure and in pain. As if a young boy could understand the beauty. After all, he was only in it because of the way the blood colored the ground beneath the body, providing a beautiful liquid frame. In it for the aesthetic. He enjoyed the purple against pale against chocolate strands. He tried to imagine a crimson background and found the colors pleasing.

_Every single day, Every word you say, Every game you play, Every night you stay, I'll be watching you_

He watched the younger one sleep, his face peaceful in the starlight. A sliver of the moon hung in the sky, providing threadbare light, competing with the streetlights below. The harsh yellow of the streets made the wheat colored strands his hands were threading through seem rough, dyed; but the softness defied the appearance.

"Live for me," he whispered but the starched stillness of the hotel room captured his words so that they never fell, never reached the boy's ears. The demand, turned around, was heard only by the walls. The boy in the bed sighed and rolled over, turning his back on the owner of the caressing hand. The violet eyed man smiled softly but it didn't quite reach his eyes which were soft with desire. Never hard. He couldn't ever show the boy the hardness of his eyes.

Because he had to watch over him, keep him safe. And not just a casual safety, like a lifeguard at a pool, but a serious safety, like a mother for a child. Although he would never call him a child. He would be yelled at, called baka. But a thousand times a day, he watched the boy, watched him chew on the end of a pencil, watched him slowly drop barriers, watch the almost smile as he read in the sun.

He would live for him. He only hoped that his younger partner could live for him. He could only hope, though, because he could never show him the hardness in his eyes, the ache in his heart, the desire in his fingers. Only softness, gentleness.

_Oh can't you see, you belong to me, How my poor heart aches with every step you take _

He woke up, his green eyes scanning the room quickly. He stiffened slightly as he felt hands running through his hair. He wanted to scream, to move, to push the hand away. But, after a moment, he relaxed. He felt his partner's emotions—calm, relax, affection. Something harder underneath all that, like a diamond hidden in a sandbox. He decided not to shift through it though. Maybe later, he thought.

The hands slowly caressed his head, his fingers slowly twining around strands. He pretended to be asleep. But the movement of the hand on his head massaged him into a relaxed state and he drifted off, no longer pretending.

He woke up a few hours later. He felt cold and he sat up, looking for his source of warmth. It was 3 am, the red clock glared at him. On the other side of the room, in the other bed, lay his partner, the sheets twisted around him. He frowned. He wanted that warmth. He stood up, crossed the few feet between them, and lifted up the coverlet, making sure that a sheet separated him and his partner so he wouldn't experience his dreams. He slid underneath and placed his back against Tsuzuki's chest. Warmth quickly spread through his body. He smiled, a small one, barely moving his lips. His partner; _his_ partner. No one else's. Never. Only his. He never noticed that his partner lay awake, faking a snore, a glimmer in his eyes, a hard, dark glimmer. A glimmer, tears maybe, was seen in the green eyes of the boy, whose back faced him, a back which Tsuzuki slowly traced a finger down. There was no stiffening, only a response. He turned around and faced the older man, not quite an acknowledgment but almost. The boy moved, closing the distance between them. A small movement which only the walls and clock witnessed. But it was enough.

_Every move you make, Every vow you break, Every smile you fake, Every claim you stake, I'll be watching you_

His glasses caught the light the wan moon offered and sparkled slightly as he pushed them up his nose. His cool, calculating eyes, watched as the good doctor looked up at the hotel room where his associates were staying. The light in the room turned off. They were going to bed. But the doctor never left.

At his feet, the shadows began to pool, a liquid black, darker than India ink, but as bright as the anger shimmering in the air around the secretary. He had been watching the doctor since Kyoto, spending his own money to make sure that the good doctor wasn't planning to grab his associates again. He didn't like business to slow down; he needed everyone operating at maximum efficiency and the weeks the violet eyed man spent recovering were not acceptable. Not only because of the costs, but in addition to.

His shadows rose up and crept toward the white coat. The doctor turned around and smirked. The secretary's lips twitched in response and his shadows grabbed the white man's wrists, throwing them in the air and securing against a wall.

"You wanted to see me?" the white man asked, remaining cool. The secretary nodded. "You could have just made an appointment."

"You're never in your office."

"You've been watching me." It wasn't a question. The shadows tightened around his wrists, grabbed his ankles. A dark tendril crept up and covered the doctor's mouth to prevent any incantations, any summonings.

"If I have to remind you, again, to leave my associates alone, it won't be a verbal one. Do we understand each other?" The doctor nodded. The secretary smiled again, coldly, and the shadows dropped away. "I will watch you forever, every step, every word, until you are sent to whatever hell you belong in," he said, clearly. He stepped back and bowed slightly. "Good evening, doctor." He disappeared from view.

The doctor stood up and ran one hand down his jacket, smoothing any wrinkles. He glanced up at the dark window and murmured into the night, "I will watch you forever, every step, every word, until you are in my arms where you belong." He turned and left, the leaves scattering as his coat disturb the night's stillness.

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In the Loge is a reference to Mary Cassatt's painting where a woman watches an opera while a man watches her across the way. A copy can be viewed here: http/ 


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